crystal
by itsspelledgrammar
Summary: Fifteen years post gensui II. Jillia can see things in mirrors that no-one else can...


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A/N: To avoid confusion, Jillia is thirty years old in this fic, and the girl is twenty. This fic didn't exactly go to plan, but I think I like where it went. The only thing I apologise about is the writing, which is terrible. Oh: in my culture crystal is used to represent the 15th wedding anniversary. I wrote this ages ago, but decided to upload it because I'm moving stuff from my site to here.   


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The mirror had a twirling gold embellishment surrounding it that was not unlike the frame of a stunning picture, and when Jillia stood in front of it she could pretend that the image reflected therein was precisely that. She was a woman of legend. She could reside in the image and romanticism forever, her expression unchanged.   
  
Her pale hands were clutched softly at her sides: too weak and jaded to hold on any tighter to the fabric that encased her. It was white, with happy, tiny, flowered ornaments trailing from the waist down like a thickness of vines to hang around her feet. Had she a mind for symbolism, she would have laughed humourlessly at the idea of herself being tripped or swallowed by a mere pattern. As it was, her face did not alter, not even when a girl walked into the room and stood, unmoving, in the doorway.   
  
Long moments passed as Jillia's eyes met the wide brown ones belonging to the girl at the door, who was in a blue dress that was pretty, but not unearthly beautiful like the one she wore. The garment was rich, like the past it made reference too, but the head-dress gracing her forehead drew a heavy, tired look onto the woman. She could remember everything as though the words of recollection were written on the space between her face and the floor. Reading she loved, but this story was a mockery. She couldn't bear the tale of the girl she had buried in this dress.   
  
She was exhausted from wearing this dress.   
  
It had remained, packed away in a worn old closet, to gather dust and moths and other things to eat away at it while it was left in miserable neglect for something once so expensive. Jillia had only worn it once, had only cause to wear it once, and she had removed it in haste after its usefulness had ended: as though it would scald her if she touched it for more than mere seconds. She fingered the silvery brocade that grew around her throat like a choker of roses slowly. It was colder than autumn air.   
  
It was a bright-cold autumn day, and the room -- although facing the sun -- was darker than it had ever been, like the window was merely a chink in a door to a place in which dark had sojourned, locked for centuries. The girl seemed eager to say something, but as she foundered under the words she moved to Jillia's side and seized her left hand tightly. When she felt the touch returned, she too looked into the glass.   
  
Jillia's skin was ghostly like a shadow of a memory in the frame. The girl imagined that if beauty was something so sorrowful, then she was looking at the only truly gorgeous thing she would ever see. Jillia was empty, emancipated and woebegone, but she looked stunning in her grief. The girl knew that white, in some cultures, symbolised mourning. It was only fitting, she supposed, that Jillia's wedding dress had been white, even though she had not cared for tradition at the time.   
  
Jillia had always believed the mirror to be too fussy, and the dress was its antithesis. It was simple, but perhaps it should have been more complex, more adorned with useless trappings that served only to make it more real. Had it always hung across her shoulders like a shroud?   
  
The girl brushed some dust from the collar and rested her cheek against Jillia's shoulder, still aware of the hand that gripped her own. It was the first day she had resurrected the gown from the wardrobe at the bottom of the stairs that held nothing -- would indeed have been unable to hold anything else -- but this silk-soft mourning dress. She breathed against the black haired woman's neck, tearing her eyes away from the reflection to stare at the alabaster in front of her. She couldn't remember what Jillia was reliving in that glass. Fifteen years had passed since then, and she had been a child when Jillia had worn his pure monstrosity.   
  
She could only speculate about what Jillia was thinking when a choking sob retched from the back of her throat. She didn't rock with the impact, but she hung her head like a weight was pressing down upon her and it was the only part she would allow to succumb to it. The girl felt herself guide Jillia's chin away from the mirror and away from the vision that was replaying on its glossy surface.   
  
The dress was heavy, but the train was heavy also. 


End file.
